


Respawn

by primeideal



Category: In a Mass Knife Fight to the Death Between Every American President Who Would Win & Why? - G. Micks
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Down but not out.





	Respawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blahblahwhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwhy/gifts).



“But...” Cleveland sputtered. “Isn’t there some other way?”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Gatekeeper, issuing him his knife. “Everyone needs to be there. Well, everyone to date, that is.”

“Surely there are plenty of patriotic citizens who would be honored to meet their presidents, past and future. Why can’t one of them stand in.”

“Because it’s your job!” she explained. “Look, everyone knows the Electoral College is no way to choose the country’s leader, it’s a bunch of outdated rigamarole. The people deserve a more... _direct_...system.”

“I wouldn’t say this is fair either,” Cleveland said.

“Oh, come now. We’ve made accommodations where need be.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see. Now, hurry it up.”

“Wait,” he called, “don’t I get a running mate?”

“Nope! You’re welcome to choose your own running-away mate if the need arises.”

Cleveland sulked as he walked down the tunnel towards the arena. So much for party loyalty.

There were the great presidents of old, and some of the not-so-great ones too. Then there were dozens of men he didn’t recognize; the leaders yet to come after him? James Monroe with a new haircut?

One man was seated in a wheeled chair that moved under its own power, apparently steered by buttons he pushed with his hands. Curious. Was that what the gatekeeper had meant by accommodations?

A voice thundered over a megaphone. “Contestants, you will have TWOOOO MINUTES to disperse throughout the arena as you see fit, after which the battle will commence.”

Cleveland hurried down the tunnel and hugged the wall, making his way to the far side of the sands. Let the big threats pick each other off first, and maybe they’d leave him alone. He squinted, trying to make out a half-familiar face across the way. An egghead, no doubt. Had they really elected…?

There seemed to be about forty-odd men in all. Before he could get a good look at all of them, the megaphone blared once more, “Ladies and gentlemen…the PRESIDENTS of the UNITED STATES!”

Were there spectators, too? He glanced up into the stony seats of the auditorium to note myriads of eyes gazing down on him. A startlingly diverse crowd, but really, didn’t they have anything better to do?

“You may...BEGIN!”

Cleveland started speedwalking towards the man he thought he’d recognized before. Not a run. A run would only make him look like he was taking the whole encounter seriously and get him in trouble. The other man started slinking in the shadows, as if searching in vain for something to hide behind. Perfect.

But before Cleveland could reach him, he was clapped on the back by the mighty figure of Teddy Roosevelt.

“Why, Governor!” Roosevelt grinned. “Where do you think you’re off too so quickly?”

Some inner part of him felt that talking back to the mustached rough rider was not in his best interest, but nevertheless, Cleveland rankled. “I’m a _President_. We all are.”

“Ah, yes. The memory, it comes and goes...”

Cleveland nodded. He had been president, he knew, although he felt himself to have the strength of a younger and haler man. Yet he also felt there was something missing from his recollections, something important.

“So,” Roosevelt pressed, “what’s so urgent, eh?”

There was nothing for it but to tell the truth and hope Roosevelt would be distracted. “I think I saw Woodrow Wilson over there.”

“Wilson? Who was fool enough to elect him?”

“I don’t know,” Cleveland exhaled. “The man can’t lead a university, let alone a country.”

“Let him get back to his books, is what I say.” Roosevelt stared across the arena, keeping an eye on the other competitors while thinking deeply. “Here’s a thought. I go engage him; you watch our backs, and when he’s busy, why, you strike!”

“You’d...work with me?”

“Well, I’m not a Mugwump, let’s not go that far. But there’s no way I’m letting Wilson win this tomfoolery, and you seem to be a serviceable ally for the present.”

Keeping Roosevelt occupied, and dispatching of Wilson while he was at it? “Seems like a square deal to me.”

Roosevelt took off at a sprint across the arena, sweat dripping from his Bull Moose shirt. Wilson was caught by surprise, and lashed out at him off-balance. When Roosevelt leaned in, Wilson dodged back, and they mouthed obscenities at each other while Cleveland quietly made his way around the wall, evading what he thought might be Millard Fillmore’s remains.

At last, he closed in, plunging his knife into Wilson’s back. Wilson yowled in pain, ignoring Roosevelt as he turned to view his killer. “Joke’s on you—stranded with—all these—Republicans,” he stammered, collapsing to the ground.

“Actually, I consider myself more of a third party these days,” Roosevelt said coolly. “I think. It’s hard to remember.”

Numb, Cleveland knelt down to retrieve his knife. As he rose, however, he found a gash in his throat, and found he could not even cry out in protest.

“Sorry, old fellow,” Roosevelt was saying, but his voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “Thanks for the assist and all.”

Then Cleveland was down on the ground, rolling away in distaste from Wilson’s still form, and staring up at the painfully bright sky—

_There was something he needed to remember._

He was nowhere in particular, watching the scrap from a distance. One of the futuristic-looking presidents had barricaded himself behind the corpse of William Howard Taft. Ulysses S Grant had stabbed both Harrisons without a backward glance. Warren Harding, obviously miffed at having missed out on the chance to murder James Buchanan, was taking out his frustrations on the later navy man who’d beaten him to the punch. A man in a brightly-colored shirt whose back displayed “#43” rushed to the side of a staggering man who resembled him, and helped him to his feet.

_The numbers. Everyone had a number, enumerating their presidency._

The vision faded, and he felt sense returning to him. The scent of blood in the air and concrete under his feet, the noise of steel and footsteps. Then, finally, sight through his own eyes. The man in the wheelchair, whispering conspiratorially with Roosevelt.

_Accommodations where need be._ Everyone had a number, and suddenly, he recalled he had _two_. The twenty-second president was dead, but the twenty-fourth lived on.

Could he try getting his revenge on Roosevelt? Would the man keel over in shock to see him alive? Or maybe it was better to play it safe, try to take down someone like Andrew Johnson who no one liked. He had time to decide.

Truly, his was the land of the free.


End file.
